Your Good Health, John
by Roxanne15927
Summary: Sherlock and John have been kidnapped and are now facing a potentially fatal task. Heavily inspired by the chapter in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince in which Dumbledore and Harry retrieve the Horcrux from the cave, there will be some parallels from that chapter and this story. Can be read and understood even if you haven't read Harry Potter. Three chapters, no slash.
1. The Test

**Author's Note: I was rereading the Harry Potter series, and I thought, why not mix two of my favorite things together? And so this was born. Enjoy and please do review! **

John's head was pounding as he struggled to open his eyes. The blackness had yet to yield, his eyelids feeling as heavy as iron weights. He tried to remember why he had been unconscious in the first place-he had vague memories of breakfast that morning, (there had been another head in the fridge, and John had decided breakfast was overrated, anyways) but after that there was nothing.

John tried opening his eyes again-and this time he succeeded, blinking away the black. He was sitting on a hard chair in a small, dark, cold room, with the only light coming from behind a water cooler that held about more or less a gallon of liquid in the corner, which had a stack of plastic cups sitting beside it. If there was a door, he couldn't see it.

He was suddenly aware of the sensation of another living presence in the room, sitting behind him. He hazarded a guess of who it was.

"Sherlock?"

John got some incoherent mumbling in response. It was Sherlock, and it sounded like he was still waking up. John was still too sluggish to get up and walk about, but he had enough strength to turn his chair around, which he did until he was facing Sherlock. The detective looked fine except for a large bump on his forehead-John reached up and found he had one just like it on his own forehead-they must have been knocked unconscious and taken to wherever here was.

Sherlock was now blinking rapidly in the same way John had done, then began looking around the room. His eyes came to rest on John at the end of his inspection. "John."

"Sherlock," John said. "What's going on?"

"Kidnapping, obviously," Sherlock said.

"Moriarty?"

"No. Perhaps he planted the idea in our kidnapper's head, but I don't think Moriarty is directly involved this time..." Sherlock trailed off, studying the water cooler. Sherlock stood a bit shakily, and moved over to the water cooler, looking at it from every angle.

Without warning, a mechanized voice sounded from an unseen intercom.

"I see you're beginning to understand what you must do, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock laughed drily. "Obvious."

"Be that as it may, you have five minutes to decide which one of you will perform the task," the voice responded. "After which, the one who is chosen has one hour to complete the task. If the other tries to complete the task in the original drinker's stead, then both of you, along with a few friends of yours that I have chosen, will be terminated." The voice paused. "If you succeed, you will have your escape. Choose wisely."

There was a crackling noise, and a female mechanized voice spoke. "Five minutes remaining."

"He wants one of us to drink all the water in the cooler?" John asked incredulously. "A bit ridiculous, isn't it?"

Sherlock's face looked pale in the ghostly light coming from behind the water cooler. "It would be if this was just water."

John got up from his chair, and joined Sherlock at the cooler. "If it's not water, then what is it?"

"I don't know," said Sherlock interestedly. "Though I can imagine the effects of it will be severe."

"Poison?"

"In a sense," Sherlock replied. "I don't think our kidnapper plans to kill us unless we disobey the rules. No, I believe he wants to make us suffer in a different way."

Sherlock took a plastic cup from the stack and seemed to be pondering it. "Seeing as emptying this cooler is our only means of escape, its effects will most likely be debilitating enough to keep us from finishing," he said thoughtfully.

"Four minutes remaining," the female mechanized voice droned.

"I know what you're thinking," John said.

"What am I thinking?" Sherlock asked, sounding amused.

"You think you should be the one to do it," John replied, pointing a finger at him. "You're a bloody idiot if you think I am just going to let you."

"I never thought that you would," Sherlock said in an infuriatingly calm manner.

"You don't even know what this stuff is!" John cried, gesturing to the cooler. "How do you know that whatever this is isn't going to kill you eventually?"

"I don't," Sherlock said.

"There you go then," John said, folding his arms.

"What do you suggest, neither of us drink and get ourselves and others killed?" Sherlock asked coolly, turning the cup in his hand.

"No," John said. "I'm going to do it. Like I said, there is _no_ way that I am going to sit here and watch you die because some psychopath dared you to."

"Three minutes remaining." The intercom crackled again.

Sherlock glanced upwards at the sound of the voice, then turned his attention back to John.

"There's just one problem with that, John," said Sherlock, his voice low, intense. "You forget that I will not allow you; I won't let you be part of another madman's game, not this time, not when I have a choice!" He said, his voice rising with each word.

Stubborn git...but John could be every bit as stubborn as his flatmate.

He reached around Sherlock and took a plastic cup. "You don't have a choice."

"One minute remaining."

"What?" John shouted at the intercom, moving toward the sound. "We have at least two minutes, you skipped-"

"One minute remaining." The voice repeated.

"Sherlock, put down the bloody cup!" John said, hysteria creeping into his voice. "I'm not going to let you-" The timer skipped again.

"20...19...18..."

"We choose Sherlock Holmes," the detective announced suddenly, and the timer cut off instantly.

"No!" John cried, but it was too late.

"Wise choice," the male mechanized voice said. "If you deviate from your choice, your landlady will be the first to die. You have one hour." The intercom crackled and went dead.

John cursed himself for his stupidity. "You idiot," he said, addressing both himself and his friend, "you stupid, _selfish_ idiot..."

Sherlock ignored this. "Enough. It's done, there's nothing you can do about it now."

"What if it kills you?" John asked weakly.

Sherlock brushed this away as if it was just an unimportant detail. "I need you to do something for me."

"Sherlock-"

"I need you to promise me that no matter what, you make sure I finish. No matter what I say, no matter what I do, you have to make sure I don't stop."

"I can't-"

"John, _please_," Sherlock said, his voice sounding far too close to breaking, "If I can't finish, Mrs. Hudson will die, possibly even Lestrade...I _need_ you." His voice softened, and John silently cursed Sherlock for being so stupidly good about emotions at just the right moments. Sherlock needed John, and that was all the doctor had to hear. If Sherlock had to do this, John bloody well wasn't going to leave Sherlock alone.

"...Okay." John said at last.

"I have your word?"

"You have my word."

"Good." Sherlock relaxed visibly. He put his cup under the spout, and filled it. John watched him numbly, feeling as if he just signed his friend's death sentence.

Sherlock held up the cup as if giving a toast. "Your good health, John."

He raised the cup to his lips and began to drink.

John wanted to tell him to stop, but remembering his promise, he remained silent as Sherlock drained the contents of the cup.

"You okay?" He asked cautiously, as Sherlock lowered the cup.

Sherlock cleared his throat . "Fine." He filled up a second cup and drained that one as quickly as the first. This time he paused, and his face immediately drained of all color. He gave a tiny "John-" before staggering forward. John moved quickly, saving the detective from a hard fall. He steadied him, helping him to stand.

John was alarmed to see that Sherlock's forehead was already beaded with sweat, his breath becoming heavy and labored.

"Are you strong enough to fill this up?" He asked gently, handing the detective another cup.

Sherlock gave a curt nod, and though shakily, filled it up without too much trouble.

He hesitated, and John gave his hand a nudge, to encourage him to keep going. "It's alright," he said softly.

Sherlock grimaced and drank for a third time. When he finished, he gasped and crumpled, and John helped lower him safely to the ground. Sherlock leaned against the wall, and he began mumbling something unintelligible, his face twitching.

"Sherlock?"

"_No_!" He suddenly screamed, pitching forward. "Stop! I don't want to...I don't want to anymore..." Sherlock covered his face with his hands. "Please don't," he said pitifully.

"We have to keep going," John said, though every part of him was screaming 'stop'. "You can do it."

Sherlock began shaking his head, muttering "no" over and over like a little child being forced to eat their vegetables. John took another cup and filled it up for him, pulling Sherlock's hands away from his face and pushing the cup into his trembling hands.

"Come on, Sherlock," John said, hating himself for what he was doing.

Sherlock swallowed hard, and obediently took the cup and drank.

"No more!" Sherlock begged John when he was done, grasping John's hands in a death grip. "Make it stop...please..." Despite this, John pulled his hands from Sherlock's, and filled up the fifth cup, holding it out to him. "This will make it stop," he lied after Sherlock refused to take it. "I promise."

Sherlock was now shaking from head to toe, face white as a ghost and sweat streaked down his face. John had never seen the detective look so miserable and scared.

"Please," John prodded. "Remember who you're doing this for."

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said weakly. "Lestrade."

"That's right," said John encouragingly.

"You," Sherlock added, and he closed his eyes tightly, grimacing from whatever pain the liquid was causing. After a moment, the detective opened his eyes and took the cup, drinking like a man dying of thirst. When he was done, he violently threw the cup across the room.

"Don't you touch him!" He roared suddenly, looking over John's shoulder, seeing things that weren't there. "It was supposed to be me...it was supposed to be me," he moaned. Then, he did something John never thought Sherlock would do-tears began streaming down his face, and John's breath hitched in his throat.

"It's not real, Sherlock, it's okay, no one's hurt-"

"Don't," Sherlock sobbed. "_Please_, I don't want to anymore, it hurts, it _hurts_...don't do this to me!"

"I promise it will stop," John said, filling up the sixth cup. "It will."

The seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth cups were absolute torture for both John and Sherlock-the detective was writhing in pain, screaming and sobbing, begging for release. There were many times when John just wanted to stop-but he had promised Sherlock, and if Sherlock did not finish, both their lives and the lives of their friends would be in grave danger.

It took a good ten minutes to convince Sherlock to take the eleventh cup. "Come on now, you're nearly there...you're nearly there," John prompted. It was true, a few more cupfuls and the cooler would be empty.

"I am?" Sherlock whimpered, looking up at John with red rimmed, watery eyes. His expression was so hopeful that it nearly broke John's heart.

"Yes," John said earnestly. "Come now..."

Sherlock took the cup, and drank. When he was finished, he cowered, curling up into a ball.

"I'm sorry!" He cried. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll never, ever do it again, just make it stop, make it stop, I didn't mean to, I swear-"

"It's alright!" John said desperately. "You didn't do anything, it's okay, you're okay!"

Sherlock seemed to barely register his words, flailing his arms about to shield himself from a nonexistent attacker.

John filled up the twelfth cup, and Sherlock, who had stopped flailing and was now laying limp on the floor, allowed John to help him sit up. John put the cup in Sherlock's hands, and moved a hand underneath the cup, supporting it so Sherlock could drink without spilling.

"_Kill me!_" Sherlock shouted when he finished.

John kept going, filling up the thirteenth cup, and helping Sherlock to drink, trying to block out his sobbing protests.

"John, please," Sherlock pleaded, gripping onto John's hand, his eyes wild and his breathing frenzied. "Kill me..."

"No," John said, his voice shaking. "No. You can do it, this is the last one." He filled up the final cup, and held it out to his friend, feeling like a monster.

"I can't," Sherlock mumbled, attempting to wipe his face. "I can't."

John just continued to hold out the cup expectantly, though his own hands were now shaking. Eventually, after a great, shuddering breath, Sherlock took the cup with trembling fingers, and carefully drank.

"You're done," John said, breathing a sigh of relief as Sherlock tossed the empty cup to the ground. "You're done, you made it!"

Sherlock seemed unable to speak, but he looked the slightest bit relieved, which was at least some of a comfort.

"Congratulations," said the male mechanized voice over the intercom. "You passed my test, you're free to go."

John could hardly believe it. They had done it!

He had Sherlock put his arm around his neck, and together they stood up slowly. They both looked inside the cooler, seeing a small key now sitting on the bottom of the plastic container. John took the now empty container from the cooler and opened it up, dumping the key into his hand.

"Look, we got it," he said triumphantly, showing the small key to Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, then abruptly, his entire body went limp. John staggered against the sudden weight, and lowered Sherlock again carefully to the ground, laying him flat on his back.

"Sherlock?"

The detective's eyes were rolling back in his head, and he was again muttering incoherently.

"Sherlock!" John cried, realization dawning on him; the effects of the liquid from the cooler had been too much for Sherlock's body to take, and it was now taking its toll.

Sherlock's breathing became raspy and slow, and he didn't even seem to know John was there.

"Don't you die on me," John said, his voice catching. "Don't. You. Dare!" Sherlock wouldn't die, he couldn't die-

Sherlock's head lolled backwards. "J-J..." He mumbled, his eyes unseeing, empty. He raised a hand, reaching up. John grabbed it, squeezing hard, as if he held on hard and long enough it would be enough to help Sherlock himself hold on.

"Sherlock, don't do this to me, don't-!" John said, and his plea was horribly reminiscent of the ones Sherlock had been making earlier...John should have listened, they could have figured something else out! He was so frustrated he wanted to scream, this couldn't be happening, it should have been him, if he hadn't been so stupid- "Sherlock, please," John said. "You can't go. We need you." He swallowed hard. "_I_ need you." This admission came as somewhat of a surprise, he hadn't even known how true that was until this very moment.

Sherlock looked up at John, eyes finally focusing on him, finally seeing him. He gave John's hand a weak, limp squeeze. "I...I'm sorry," he breathed. "Can't...don't want to...don't want to go..."

"No. No." John pleaded. "You don't have to, please don't...for me-"

And of course the detective didn't listen-his head moved sideways, his eyes becoming vacant and empty again, but they were still locked on John's. He sighed, his hand slipping from John's and thudding to the floor with a sickening thump.

Sherlock gave one last, rattling breath, then went completely still.


	2. The Score

The Score

Not Sherlock. Not Sherlock. _Not Sherlock._

This repeated over and over in John's head, one after another as if he thought it enough, he could make it true. Numbly, John moved to take Sherlock's pulse, when he heard the sound of a door opening behind him and footsteps. The smart reaction would have been to look, but John wasn't worried about that right now. His hand closed around Sherlock's wrist, but whether there was a pulse or not John never got to know, he was pulled to his feet and dragged out of the room by whoever had just entered the room, away from Sherlock's slack, lifeless body-

"No," he heard himself moan softly.

"Hush," a sharp, familiar voice said, and as the door shut John finally looked up to see who had taken him.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, now _hush_," the man replied irritably.

"What about Sherlock?" John protested. "We have to go back and get him-"

"Don't worry about Sherlock, doctor," Mycroft replied, as they moved down the long, dark corridor. "I have people coming to take care of him, and there's nothing you can do for him for now. You staying here would be foolish, your kidnapper is sending reinforcements as we speak."

"I don't care how bloody stupid it is," John shot back, coming to an abrupt stop. "I'm not leaving. Not without Sherlock."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I am only looking out for your own safety, just as my brother would want-"

"I don't think you heard me correctly," John interrupted. "I'm. Not. Leaving."

"If those reinforcements arrive whilst you are there attempting to save Sherlock's life, they will kill both of you immediately," said Mycroft coolly. "If they arrive and find my brother alone, apparently dying, they will leave him. You staying behind will only ensure his death, so I suggest you reconsider."

John glowered up at Mycroft for a moment, weighing his options. Unfortunately, the man was right-the doctor's presence would only endanger Sherlock's life further.

"_Fine_," John said. "But I swear, if your people do not get to him in time-" he stepped forward, jabbing a finger at Mycroft's chest- "I _will_ come after you."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Mycroft replied calmly, and he turned and resumed walking down the corridor.

They walked on silently until they arrived at another door with a keypad. Mycroft studied the pad for just a moment, then entered in four digits. There was a sound of the door unlocking and it swung open.

The second they stepped in, John knew something was wrong-it was much too quiet and he did not believe that they were not being followed. Unconsciously, he reached into his coat for his gun, but of course, he did not have it. It was then he saw it-the glint of a gun from the corner.

"Get down!" John shouted, and dove forward, tackling Mycroft to the floor. The bullet whizzed over their heads as the two men crashed hard to the ground.

After shooting, the man emerged from his hiding spot, and John jumped to his feet, glancing back quickly to check on Mycroft, then back to the man.

John knew what the man was going to do before he did-the man barreled forward, meaning to try to take him down perhaps in the same manner as John had Mycroft, but the doctor was ready for it. He braced himself, and when the man collided with him John seized him by the wrist and twisted it behind his back. The man howled in pain and John shoved him to the ground, he heard running footsteps coming from his right and spun around to meet his next attacker.

John took care of him as easily as the first, but the man was followed by two, no, three more men-and even more men followed. John was quickly becoming overwhelmed, and Mycroft-who knew where Mycroft was? The man had disappeared, and John hoped that he had escaped and not been captured.

From the front, another charged him, and John, though weary, braced himself. The man never made it. A fresh bullet wound suddenly appeared in the man's shoulder almost as if by magic, jerking backwards and falling to the ground. John whirled around to see that his savior was Sherlock Holmes himself, holding a gun, white faced, weak, but _alive_.

John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock interrupted him. "Vatican cameos," He shouted, and John ducked down just before the detective shot over his head, taking down the man who had previously been sneaking up behind them.

With Sherlock by his side, the two were able to easily fight off the rest of the reinforcements

"Good work, John," said Sherlock after the doctor had knocked the last one to the ground. He nodded at the fallen men around them, and his voice was alarmingly faint and weak, as if he might pass out at any moment.

"You should sit down," John said, concerned.

Sherlock shrugged this off, and when he opened his mouth to speak, he let out a pained gasp and the next moment he stumbled. John acted quickly, catching him by the arm.

"Sherlock-"

"Don't worry, I'm fine," The detective said in what he must have thought was a reassuring tone, but his voice was so quiet John didn't believe him. "Let's just get out of here, alright?" Sherlock said after noticing John's incredulous expression. He closed his eyes for a moment, then they opened again, looking over at John in an almost pleading way. "Will you, John?"

"Of course," John replied, understanding. "Come on, get your arm up around my neck, you look like you're going to faint."

Sherlock gave a weak chuckle, but obliged, wrapping an arm around John's neck, and together they slowly made their way out, through the next door. Sherlock murmured quiet instructions, which way to turn and when to stop-John didn't ask him how he knew, just obeyed. The detective seemed to be becoming weaker as time passed, and eventually John was half carrying him instead of just supporting his weight. He was beginning to feel his own injuries, but he ignored them and focused on getting his friend out, he didn't know how much longer the detective would be able to hold on.

"Door to your right," Sherlock murmured, and John glanced to the door indicated. It opened easily and together they stepped inside, a dark, large room just like the first.

"I can...I can walk now," Sherlock said softly.

John scoffed.

"No, really, I can. Please."

John looked into his friend's white, determined face. "Fine. Go on then," he said after a moment. "But if you fall on your face it'll be your own fault."

Sherlock smiled a little at John's attempt at humor, and reluctantly the doctor released the detective. Sherlock staggered a bit, but then stood up straight, rolling his shoulders.

"Good?"

"Yes." Sherlock said. Suddenly, someone was slamming on the door, probably throwing their weight against it. There was also the sound of angry voices, how many, John couldn't tell.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. John pointed to the corner. "Go lean up against that wall," he commanded. "Go," he said again when Sherlock didn't move. "Don't worry, Sherlock," John said, trying to sound comforting despite the pounding and shouting behind the door.

"I'm not worried, John," Sherlock said, then after a moment, he added-"I'm with you."

Unexpectedly, he reached out and put a hand on John's shoulder, and the doctor was about to respond when he felt a painful prick in his shoulder. Surprised, he yelped at the pain, and almost immediately he felt sluggish, slow.

"What...what did you do...?" He slurred, his limbs suddenly feeling heavy and useless.

Sherlock didn't answer, but led John over to the same dark corner the doctor had just originally commanded Sherlock to hide in. Gently, Sherlock helped John sit.

"What was that..." John said, literally having to force out the words.

"It's alright," Sherlock said, his voice barely audible above the pounding and shouting from behind the door. "Just keep still...trust me."

"Sher..."

Sherlock ignored him and moved into the light just as the door burst open, and three men rushed into the room.

"There he is," the man closest to Sherlock said. "We've been looking for you."

Sherlock straightened up, pointing his gun at the men. "Why? I passed your boss' test."

"Yeah," said the man, "but the boss never said that he wasn't going to try to stop you on the way out." He pulled out a gun and aimed it at Sherlock's heart. "It's just you that he wants, but he said if you don't cooperate we should shoot your friend there." He jerked his head in John's direction.

Sherlock's shoulders sagged the smallest fraction.

_Don't_, John wanted to say, but his body refused to obey.

Sherlock's arm dropped, and he tossed the gun onto the floor.

_No!_ John tried, but again, no sound came out.

"Good," said the man, and suddenly a smooth, familiar voice sounded from behind the men. "Get out of my way." The next moment, Mycroft Holmes himself pushed his way through the throng.

If John had been able to gasp or make any sort of noise, he would have, but whatever Sherlock had drugged him with had almost completely paralyzed his bodily functions. Why were the men not moving, not trying to attack Mycroft? Why-

Mycroft's expression hardened at the sight of his brother, and out of his suit jacket he pulled out a handgun, and he waved a dismissing hand at the man aiming a gun at Sherlock. Strangely enough, the man obeyed and lowered his gun.

"He's unarmed," one of the men said, a shorter, bearded man to Mycroft's left.

Mycroft simply raised an eyebrow, not taking his eyes off his brother. "Hello, brother dear," he said, his voice unusually cold.

John could not see Sherlock's expression, but he saw the way the detective's shoulders tensed. "Mycroft..." he said, his voice painfully soft, and John realized Sherlock was actually _pleading_. "Mycroft, please..." The sound of it was like a knife in John's chest, and cold, awful realization was clenching around his heart like a fist.

Mycroft's expression didn't change, but he held up the gun, aiming it at Sherlock, and John's heart began to pound frantically. He wouldn't, it was just a ruse, he wasn't going to-

_NO!_

Mycroft fired, and John could do nothing but watch helplessly as time seemed to slow down, his scream of horror blocked in his throat, as the bullet caught Sherlock in the chest, the sheer force of it throwing the detective's body backwards, sending him crashing hard onto the floor.

_Sherlock! SHERLOCK!_

John tried as hard as he could to move, to do _anything_, but his body remained motionless, useless, and the harder he tried, the more exhausted he became. Darkness hovered in the corners of his vision, then suddenly it swallowed him up, and the last things he saw was Mycroft shouting instructions at the men, and finally the crumpled, limp body of Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
